


Time Enough for Love

by killabeez



Category: Highlander, Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-06-24
Updated: 2005-06-24
Packaged: 2017-10-03 16:18:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killabeez/pseuds/killabeez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A remix of Esjay's "The Last Time." There's a lot about Methos that Duncan doesn't know, but homophobia's the last thing he would have expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time Enough for Love

_Written for the first [Highlander Remix challenge](http://www.livejournal.com/community/hl_remix/). It remixes Esjay's [The Last Time](http://www.squidge.org/esjay/TheLastTime.html) (with the author's permission) and I feel fortunate to have had the opportunity. Thanks so much to Unovis, MacGeorge, and Cinel for the beta, and to Merricat for the reality check!_

* * *

At two in the afternoon on a weekday, Le Blues Bar was nearly deserted. The sound of a guitar being tuned greeted Duncan MacLeod as he came downstairs from the alley and stood blinking in the shadows at the end of the bar, waiting for his eyes to adjust. A gravelly voice reached him, a silver-gray head lifting in the stream of sunlight from the small window.

"Say, you look kinda familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?"

Duncan made his way toward him, hoping his own voice didn't sound as sheepish as he felt. "Hi, Joe."

Joe snapped his fingers. "Oh, right, I remember you now. Mac-something, wasn't it? You'll have to excuse my memory. Not getting any younger, you know." The tone was joking, but with an edge of truth that made Duncan's face warm. Seeing it, Joe relented a little, and pointed toward the bar with his chin. "There's coffee, if you want some."

Duncan poured himself a cup, and brought it over to the table. "Sorry I haven't been around much lately."

"Much? How about at all? I was starting to think it was my aftershave."

"Since when do you use aftershave?"

At that, Joe grinned. "Touché."

More sure of his welcome now, Duncan set down the cup and swung a chair around, straddling it. "You playing tonight?"

Joe's fingers moved over the strings, testing their pitch. "That's the plan. Think you might grace us with your presence?"

Duncan winced a little. "I wish I could, but I've got something—"

"Hey, don't stress it. I figured as much."

"It's nothing personal, Joe, I've just had a lot going on lately. A lot of loose ends to take care of, you know? And I've been spending time at the auction houses, going to previews, that sort of thing. I'm thinking of opening up a store in Paris. It's been a while, and I'm rusty—it's taking a lot of time to brush up on the market, the pricing structures and so forth—" He shut up, realizing he was overdoing it.

"Mmhmm. I can see how that could keep you pretty busy," Joe agreed.

"Exactly," Duncan said, relieved.

At that, Joe looked up, pained. "You're not gonna make this easy on me, are you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Come on, Mac. We're friends, right? So, all right, already, I give. Strictly off the record. You know you can trust me."

Duncan cradled the coffee cup between his hands, blowing on it to cool it, a frown gathering between his brows. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

"You cagey bastard. Who is she?"

It was a close thing; Duncan almost got hot coffee down the wrong pipe. He coughed a little, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Excuse me?"

Joe chuckled. "Did you learn that innocent face from Methos? Because he may have neglected to tell you, it's never worked on me."

"No, I—" Backpedaling, he shifted gears on that before he could incriminate himself further. "Who is who?"

"You know very well what 'she' I'm referring to. This mystery lady who's got you secreted away at her place almost every night, and keeps spiriting you off for long weekends in the country—that is, when you're not meeting her at hotels in the middle of the afternoon. Just because I don't keep a full-time field agent on you don't mean I don't know the score."

"Joe—"

"Look, this is your friend talking, not your Watcher. I've gone out of my way to give you some space on this one, but I'm starting to worry here, buddy. All this sneaking around. It's not your style."

The genuine concern in his expression made it tough to work up any real affront at his prying. Duncan's own sense of honesty and fairness didn't help. He and Joe had been close after Ahriman, and it was a long time now since Duncan had tried to hide anything from him. But no matter how much he hated the rock-and-hard-place feeling, it wasn't just his private life any more, and he wasn't the only one with a say in the matter.

"I wouldn't exactly call it sneaking around," he said at last. But he couldn't quite meet Joe's eyes when he said it.

"What would you call it, then?"

"Being... cautious." He fiddled with his coffee cup, watching the last wisps of steam curl upward. "We're just— we're not ready to take out a full page ad in _Le Monde,_ that's all. You can understand that, right?" He looked up at last, beseeching his friend to cut him a break, even though he didn't really understand it himself, not completely.

To his relief, Joe relented. "Sure, Mac," he said easily.

But his eyes said he was disappointed in MacLeod—that he expected better from him. What did he think? Duncan wondered. That she was married? That Duncan was running around with some other man's wife, and didn't trust Joe enough to admit it?

Great. Just what he needed.

* * *

He made it about two steps inside the door of the hotel room before being hit full-force by a familiar aggressor who was neither married nor innocent, and most definitely no lady—as was made abundantly clear a moment later when his assailant dragged him inside, shut the door, and muscled him up against it with deliberate and obvious intent.

Strong fingers tangled in his hair and pulled his head back, baring his neck to soft lips that sought his instant surrender, winning it not by force but by subtle conquest, raising gooseflesh and lighting little sparks of heat in his belly, then melting them into shivers as that wicked mouth drew lower, sucking and nipping at sensitive places. Duncan laughed, breathless, as his body forgot the stern talking-to he'd given it on the way over and suggested with enthusiasm that talking could, after all, really wait until later. "Miss me?"

"You have no idea," Methos breathed into his neck, pressing himself insistently into the heat between Duncan's thighs. He was already hard, impressively so, and Duncan wondered if he'd started without him. The thought kindled his own heat into a steady, rising flame, and he caught Methos' jaw, holding him steady, their eyes locking for long seconds as Methos' sex pressed along his and Duncan drew a deep breath, let it out.

Methos wetted his lips then, a flicker of his tongue, and just like that they were licking at each other, mouths open and hot and hungry. Distantly, Duncan knew it was wrong, that they'd substituted sex for talking for too long as it was—but it was really tough to care when Methos' hands were opening his pants and reminding him with vivid immediacy that there was very little about what Duncan liked that Methos' hands and Methos' tongue didn't know. There was something to be said for alternate methods of communication.

Later, when they were lying beside each other on the bed, sweaty and spent and more or less naked, Duncan studied the spidery cracks in the old ceiling paint. "I think Joe's starting to get suspicious."

"Oh?" Beside him, Methos lay suddenly still.

Duncan sighed. "It was inevitable, I'm afraid. I mean, he is my Watcher."

"So? It's still none of his business. What did you tell him?"

Surprised at Methos' tone, Duncan looked over. Methos was studying the same cracked paint, looking not at all like a man in a hurry to accept the inevitable. "I didn't tell him anything. I admitted I was seeing someone, but—"

Methos sat up, frowning. "What'd you do that for?"

The sting caught Duncan off-guard—though it shouldn't have, he realized. He should have expected it. Methos had made it clear enough that he didn't want anyone knowing about their trysts, and no matter how Duncan tried to make light of it, pretending the secrecy and the clandestine meetings were part of the game, a way to add spice to the sex, that couldn't erase his steadily growing certainty that there was something rotten in the state of Denmark.

Much as he tried to understand, it hurt. "What was I supposed to do? Keep avoiding him for the next twenty years or so?"

"Well, you wouldn't have to, if you'd work on your poker face now and again, instead of always clinging to that honest and forthright image you like so much."

At a loss for an appropriate reply, Duncan stared at Methos' profile for the space of two heartbeats, then shut his mouth on whatever he'd been about to say and swung his feet to the floor. "I can't believe I'm hearing this," he muttered, all trace of afterglow forgotten. He cast about for his trousers, and spotted them halfway across the floor.

"Mac?"

The hell with it. Naked, feeling like a cat whose fur had just been rubbed vigorously and thoroughly the wrong direction, Duncan marched for the bathroom.

"Hey, Mac, come on, I'm kidding—"

But that was just the problem, wasn't it? He wasn't.

* * *

Duncan scrubbed the shampoo into his scalp as though he could scrub his brain clean of the last few months, all the little signs he'd tried his best not to read, not to understand. It was the last, the absolute _last_ thing he could have anticipated, and even now, when he was staring it in the face, he could hardly credit the idea that Methos—Methos!—of all people—

But there it was, staring right back at him, and he couldn't deny it any more. All the little things crowded into his mind's eye, forcing him to admit the truth he hadn't wanted to see. All the moments when Methos had kept that careful distance between them as they sat in restaurants, or walked together; the way he'd nixed the idea of meeting at Maurice's place, or spending time together with Joe, saying they were getting too predictable. The way he'd insisted on taking separate cars whenever they met, even if the destination was hours outside Paris. His paranoia about being seen at the barge too often, or too late at night. And yesterday—

Yesterday, they'd planned to meet for lunch on the Right Bank, at a little café near the Bastille. Duncan had been running late thanks to a last-minute phone call, and had hurried across the street only to spot Methos sitting with a woman Duncan didn't know, talking and laughing over coffee. She looked up and smiled nervously as he arrived, out of breath; she was lovely, young, with a clear-eyed gaze that a man wouldn't soon forget. "Bonjour," she said, and hesitantly extended her hand.

"Hello," he'd replied, taking it. "I'm—"

"Duncan MacLeod," Methos jumped in, getting up hastily and surrendering his chair, taking the one on the other side of his female companion. "A friend of mine. Mac, this is Jillian O'Hara. We knew each other when I was working as a researcher."

Getting the message, Duncan resisted the urge to glance at her left wrist as he clasped her hand. That explained the nervousness. "I promise, I don't bite. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Ms. O'Hara."

"Likewise," she said. "But don't worry, I'm not with the Watchers any more. I just happened to be coming out of the Metro—Adam and I haven't seen each other in ages." She started to rise. "I should get going. I don't want to ruin your lunch date—"

Methos laughed, a forced sound that made Duncan glance at him in surprise, and laid his hand over hers. "Oh, it's not a date. Mac and I would much rather share the afternoon with someone as lovely as yourself. Right, Mac?"

"Right," Duncan said warmly, though privately his eyes asked Methos what the hell was going on. What game was Methos playing? Did he have some reason not to trust this woman?

Lunch was a surreal affair, and Duncan felt more than once that he was inhabiting someone else's rather vivid dream. Or maybe he was the one who'd been dreaming, and the man smiling and chatting across the table from him had never whispered sweet nothings in his ear while fucking him expertly into next week, never claimed to be possessed by the strange and inexplicable desire to pick out china patterns with him—had never, in fact, been Methos at all, but just Adam Pierson, boyishly charming, erudite, and manifestly interested in beguiling the knickers off the admittedly lovely young woman who sat firmly ensconced between them. Who, it became patently clear from their body language, had known Adam Pierson in more than the literal sense.

The surreality didn't end when the bill came. Methos insisted on taking care of it, and looked directly at Duncan for the first time since he'd arrived. "Don't you have that meeting this afternoon?" he asked solicitously. "You go ahead. Don't want to make you late."

He did, in fact, have an afternoon appointment. With Methos, about three blocks from the café, at one of the little hotels where Methos kept a room. _Trust me, _Methos' imploring look said. _Play it my way. _

"Right you are," Duncan said heartily, and said adieu to his luncheon companions, trying not to make more of it than it was. Methos had to have a good reason for blowing him off... right?

But he never had found out what that reason was. Methos must have parted company with his old flame in haste after Duncan left, because he very nearly beat Duncan back to his car, accosting him briefly, if fervently, against the driver's side before plucking the electronic key neatly out of Duncan's pocket and unlocking the doors. He glanced toward the mouth of the alley and tossed the key back, hurrying around to the other side. "Come on, let's go. I'm meeting my solicitor at three, and it's at least half an hour by taxi." He opened the passenger door, then caught Duncan's look. "What?"

"What? That all you can say?" He gestured toward the street. "What the hell was that about?"

"Look, Mac, I'm sorry about that. Jilly is— look, it doesn't matter. It's nothing. I'll make it up to you, okay?"

The promises in Methos' eyes and the faint flush in his cheeks made Duncan pause. Make it up to him? A penitent Methos, he knew from experience, could be... extremely rewarding. A small, familiar thrill zinged up his spine and sparked in his belly. Did he really care what game Methos was playing with the Watchers, as long as it didn't change anything between them?

"You'll make it up to me?" he heard himself say, his voice sinking into its lower registers.

Methos grinned, olivine eyes flashing. "With interest," he promised, and Duncan gave in to the inevitable.

Not for the first time. And not the last, either, Duncan thought bitterly, scrubbing the soap into a lather against his skin and washing away the sweat and come of their most recent exercise in conversational avoidance. But no more. He was through letting sex blind him to what was, now, painfully obvious. They'd taken this thing as far as it could go. If Methos was so ashamed of what they had that he was willing to put himself through the most awkward lunch in the history of the world to avoid admitting it, and couldn't handle the idea of even Joe knowing, then plainly, what they had was not worth much.

"Unfuckingbelievable," Duncan muttered under his breath, sluicing the last of the soap off him with impatient strokes. After everything he'd seen, everything he'd had to accept in his long life, this took the cake.

Who in God's name would have believed that Methos, five-thousand-year-old Immortal, ex-Horseman, Roman slave, and reigning king of the Been There, Done That Club, was a raging homophobe?

* * *

When Duncan emerged from the bathroom, Methos was up and dressed, looking mussed, loose-limbed, and entirely too tempting in frayed jeans, white T-shirt, and bare feet. He'd just pulled a beer out of the hotel's mini-fridge and was drinking from the bottle, his lips reddened and wet from the rim.

The man was a living, breathing embodiment of sex, no two ways about it—which just made the irony cut more deeply. As long as they'd known each other, Duncan had only rarely seen him admit regret or shame about anything. Not for Kronos, or Jacob, certainly not for Byron. Barely over Cassandra, and even then, he hadn't let it show for more than a moment. But this, loving another man, loving Duncan, shamed him so profoundly that he couldn't even look Duncan in the eye, or touch him, where someone else might see?

Duncan followed the trail of his own discarded clothing across the floor, donning it as he went. He felt sordid, and more than a little pathetic. Whatever fears he might have had about letting the simmering attraction between them finally blossom into reality, the idea that their last time would come barely two months after they'd begun and leave him feeling like somebody's dirty secret hadn't even come close to making the list. He shrugged his shirt on and buttoned it, looking around the elegant little room for the last time.

"You have to go?" Methos said, and Duncan finally turned, meeting his eyes.

"I think it's for the best, don't you?"

Methos heard the finality in his voice and froze, bottle halfway to his lips. His eyes widened, and he lowered it slowly. "Wait a minute, you're leaving? As in, bye-bye, Methos, so long and thanks for all the fish?"

Duncan chuckled bitterly. "He catches on fast." He sighed; it wasn't really funny. "Come on, Methos, let's not drag things out. It's obvious this isn't going to work."

The only word he could think of to describe Methos' expression was gobsmacked. He set the bottle down, and took a step toward Duncan, imploring.

"Mac, what's this about? Is it because I was mad about Joe? Because I overreacted, you're right. Seriously, I didn't mean it—"

"It's not about Joe."

Methos raised his hands, an unconscious gesture that touched Duncan's heart in spite of himself. But he held himself still, resisting the temptation to read more into that than he should. He knew Methos cared about him; it just wasn't enough. His throat felt tight.

"This is about Jilly, then, isn't it. Is that it? You think I— Mac, look, nothing could be further than the truth. I told you, it's nothing. Less than nothing. It's just that—"

"Methos. It's not about Jillian. It's not any one thing, okay? It's all of it, everything. I'm tired of waiting for you to decide it's okay to be seen with me, to admit we're more than casual acquaintances who go out for a pint now and then. I'm tired of you brushing me off like my touch is shameful to you! I just— I don't know if it's because you feel like you have to blend in, or disappear in the crowd, or what, and frankly, I don't care. The bottom line is that I vowed a long time ago I was never going to be ashamed of who I am and who I love, and I'm not about to start now." He ran a hand through his hair in frustration and turned away with a small, disbelieving laugh, toward the door. "I can't believe we're even having this conversation."

"Duncan—"

Hearing Methos use his given name was more than he could deal with right now. He was too angry, too disgusted with himself for letting things get to this point. "Goodbye, Methos," he said, and let himself out.

Methos stood in the doorway and called after him. He was still saying something, trying to persuade him to stay, but Duncan strode toward the stairs and didn't let himself hear any more.

* * *

He was almost ten minutes from the hotel before he eased off the gas pedal, and made himself draw a steadying breath, then let it out. He'd been driving without paying attention to where he was going; at the next intersection, he took his bearings, and turned right. He didn't feel much like going home to an empty barge, and he owed someone an apology, anyway.

The street in front of the bar was lined with cars on both curbs, and he had to go around the block to find a space. The shadows were lengthening, the late afternoon sun starting to slip behind the buildings as he stepped inside the front door.

Inside, a handful of patrons were starting the evening off early. Joe was behind the bar when he walked in, and looked both surprised and pleased to see him. "Hey, Mac! Back already?"

"Looks like it. I suddenly seem to have a lot more free time on my hands."

"Uh oh, from the look on your face, I'm guessing that's not a good thing." He already had the Jameson out, and was pouring Duncan a healthy shot.

Duncan sighed. He never had been able to keep much from Joe. "Good guess," he admitted, and accepted the whiskey gratefully. He tossed it back, and didn't protest when Joe gave him a refill before pouring one for himself.

"Your lady friend?" At Duncan's expression, he just nodded. "My condolences, man. That's rough."

"Yeah." His voice sounded thick, even to his own ears. "Listen, can we talk about something else?"

"Sure, buddy, no problemo. Whatcha want to talk about?"

"How about a real apology, for starters? It's been too long—you were right."

"I'm always right, but you knew that. Don't beat yourself up over it. Contrary to popular belief, the whole world does not rest on your shoulders, my friend. Well, not today, anyway."

"Thanks, Joe."

Joe grinned. "What are friends for?" He raised his glass, and Duncan lifted his own to clink against it. "Hey, speaking of friends, you seen—?"

He never got a chance to finish that sentence, because it was at that precise moment that the gunmen burst through the door.

"Allez! Everyone on the floor!" the first one yelled, waving a pistol at them and the bar's patrons. "Hand over the cash!" Duncan was already sizing up the options, moving subtly to put himself between Joe and the three men in black ski masks. He had his sword, of course, and a small knife in his boot, but the three had already spread out inside the door and were too far away for hand-to-hand. He spared a brief, futile wish for Methos and the 9-millimeter he almost always carried, but wishing was a waste of focus, and he let that go. Did Joe still keep a shotgun under the bar, like he had in Seacouver?

The two women and three men had dropped to the floor as ordered. Duncan spread his hands, showing the approaching gunman that he was unarmed, but he moved slowly, reluctant to give up his shielding position. "Joe, do as he says."

"You got it, buddy, I'm the definition of cooperative, here." He heard Joe moving behind him, shifting toward the cash register at the end of the bar. The gunman was closer now, and Duncan could see he was high on something, the guy's reflexes hyper and overwired. Joe's cane scraped on the bar, and the muzzle of the gun twitched upward, the eyes wide and dilated in the ski mask's holes.

"It's all right!" He held his hands higher, sinking down to one knee, the hair on his arms standing up with the awareness of Joe vulnerable behind him. "Easy, Joe, this guy's wound a little tight. Nice and slow."

Just then, a distant car horn sounded, cutting through the tense hush. Time slowed down, then rushed forward with the odd unreality of a nightmare. Duncan sensed Joe move behind him, saw the nearest gunman raise his weapon and—

The alley door slammed open. There was a bright flash, a noise that echoed in his head, and Duncan was in motion, vaulting over the bar and pulling Joe down with the force of his inertia, doing what he could to cushion the fall as they crashed to the floor. A second shot rang out almost before they hit the ground. Someone screamed; the sound of a scuffle followed, and Duncan was already moving again, pushing himself up and scuttling toward the end of the bar closest to the door.

Before he could even poke his head up to assess the situation, the tussle was over, ending in a sound he could only describe as a yelp. It was followed by an all-too-familiar voice that said, "Of all the blues bars in all the towns in all the world, you had to walk into this one, hey, bub? Sucks to be you."

_Methos._ For the briefest of moments, all Duncan felt was relief, and a laugh that threatened to bubble up against his control. Then he remembered, and swallowed the name and the gladness back.

"Olly Olly Oxen Free," Methos called then. "It's okay everybody, I think our friends here are officially out of the armed robbery business. You're free to move about the cabin."

"Son of a bitch," Joe said somewhere behind him, and Duncan couldn't have agreed more. He stood up, taking stock. The gunman nearest the door was unconscious, shot through the chest, but didn't appear to be dead; the one who had menaced him and Joe wasn't so lucky. Methos had taken him down with a shot to the head. The third was curled rather pathetically on the floor at Methos' feet, making a whimpering noise that had no visible cause. Methos met Duncan's look with an insouciant grin that didn't quite hide the tension in his body, or the ferocity in his eyes.

"What do you think, Mac? Do I have a chance at the Nick of Time merit badge?"

Duncan wasn't sure whether he wanted to shake him, or hug him. The vision of a bullet ripping into Joe's chest, or burying itself in his skull, had been too real. "You could have saved one for me," he said, hoping the shakiness wasn't apparent in his voice.

"Always the complaining with you. Nothing's ever good enough."

"Hey, guys," Joe broke in, pulling himself to his feet. "Somebody want to call the cops?"

* * *

Given that one of the robbers was D.O.A., and another nearly so, it was some hours before the gendarmes had finished questioning Methos. For a while, Duncan and Joe had been afraid that the impressive collection of unpaid parking tickets might make things ugly, but fortunately, Adam Pierson's gun club membership and permits were in order, and he had seven witnesses to attest that lethal force had been necessary. As a result, the night was still relatively young when they let him go.

"You, I am buying a drink," Joe said, getting to his feet as Methos crossed the waiting room toward them.

"I won't turn it down," said Methos. He glanced at Duncan, something careful in his expression. "You still here?"

Duncan shrugged. "Keeping Joe company."

"Ah, I see."

"And... I figured I owed you a thank you," Duncan admitted. With all that had happened, it was hard to remember why he'd been angry before. Instead, what he kept remembering was how good Methos felt against him, and his grin when he'd first seen Duncan in the bar.

The hazel eyes were bright now, shining with some private joke. "Well, this is a first. Will wonders never cease?"

"Can it, you two," said Joe. "I haven't eaten a damn thing 'cept a packet of crackers since noon, and my throat is getting drier by the second—not to mention I got Louis Walker and Paris Slim in my bar, and they've been playing without me for the last half an hour. What do you say we make like a tree and blow this taco stand?"

"Hell of a plan," Methos said, and Joe started toward the door. "Just one thing first, though, Joe."

Joe turned back. "What's that?"

And in the middle of a Paris police station, Methos closed the distance between his body and Duncan's and, putting one hand on Duncan's waist and the other against the back of his neck, leaned in and kissed him as thoroughly as he knew how.

Which, given that he'd been doing it for five thousand years, give or take, was saying a lot.

When he was finished, he pulled back and surveyed the effect he'd had, seemingly pleased with the breathless, flushed Duncan MacLeod who gazed back at him, eyes wide, utterly flummoxed. A little smile played about Methos' lips, and the bright thing in his eyes made Duncan's heart feel like it might jump right out of his chest and into Methos' hand. Which was still resting against his waist—a casual fact that made his skin tingle. Methos' gaze was soft, somehow managing both wicked satisfaction and apology at the same time. Duncan knew they were drawing stares, and still he couldn't look away.

Joe, he realized, was laughing. "Do I take it this means I can expect a settlement of accounts from you in the very near future, Monsieur Pierson?"

"You'll have it first thing tomorrow," Methos said, never taking his eyes from Duncan's.

"Settlement of... what the hell is he talking about?"

Methos linked his arm in Duncan's, and began to steer him toward the door. "Tell me you didn't seriously believe I was worried about what people would _think,_ MacLeod, or I may have to question my judgment altogether."

It took Duncan some effort to process that. His brain didn't seem to be working quite right. "You had a bet," he said at last, suspicion crystallizing. "With Joe. About me." Indignation began to penetrate the hazy after-effects of Methos' kiss.

"About us," Methos corrected. "More specifically, about my ability to keep my hands off you. Which, as Joe can now quite plainly see, he has won. Though I can't say I'm too unhappy about it."

Finding not the slightest hint of remorse in Methos' self-satisfied expression, Duncan shifted his indignation to Joe. "You—"

"Oh, no, huh-uh, buddy. Don't look at me like that. It was just a friendly wager—you're the one who's been aiding and abetting all this time, instead of confiding in your best pal. I ought to charge you interest."

"Excellent idea," Methos approved. "You could put away quite a tidy nest egg. Even at half a percent over prime—"

Duncan stopped and looked from Joe to Methos. "Just how much are we talking about, here?" His friends exchanged a look, and Methos gave a pained sigh.

"My bar tab," he confessed.

Duncan's eyes widened. "The whole thing?"

"Since 1984, baby," said Joe, grinning like it was going out of style.

Methos nodded, chagrined. "Now you see why I was willing to go to such extremes. Although, you have to admit, the whole clandestine thing is a bit of a turn on—"

The hazy after-effects were definitely wearing off. Duncan's brows lowered. "If I were you, I'd be very careful what you say to me in the next few minutes, or it'll be nothing more than a fond memory."

"I read you, kemosabe. And now, you listen to me." Without warning, Methos moved, hands fisting in Duncan's coat lapels and pulling him in close, leaving little room for any casual observer to doubt the nature of their familiarity with one another's personal space. Methos' eyes held his, suddenly fierce, his body hot and intimate against Duncan's. "If you think I give a rat's ass whether the whole world knows that I am wildly and enthusiastically fucking and sucking Duncan MacLeod every chance I get and in every way possible, you are obviously—" he leaned in and kissed Duncan, soundly "—seriously—" and kissed him again, more deeply this time "—deluded."

"Say," said Joe, when Methos was finished, "how's about we get the hell out of here before we all get arrested again?"

And because Methos had said all he intended to say, and because Duncan wasn't entirely capable of speech at the moment, it was Joe Dawson who got the last word.

_The End_


End file.
